A soft knock at the door signals the entrance of another female doctor, carrying a chart. She’s not dressed like a doctor, though, wearing a neat, brightly colored skirt and blouse setting off her dark skin.
“I’m Doctor Reddy. Are you the daughter?”
I nod.
“Is it okay if we move to a private place to discuss your mother’s condition?”
I glance back to my mom. Only her breathing displaces the air in the room. I follow the doctor out to a small meeting area with a half-dozen chairs and a white table.
The doctor sits down in a chair beside me. She’s close in an intimate this-is-between-you-and-me way.
“Is it okay if Mr. Moore stays?” the doctor asks.
Peter’s hanging at the door, staring at the linoleum floor, deadpan. I know what he’s doing. I’m doing it too. His expression has nothing to do with whether I let him remain. He’s bracing for bad news.
“Go ahead,” I tell the doc. My fingers are tight on the rims of my chair’s wheels.
Peter enters silently and sits across from us.
“Your mother has a severe depression with catatonia.”
“Because of the MS,” I say.
“No, this is not simply active MS. She meets all the criteria for a major depression.”
She lets the diagnosis sink in.
“What she had last time, right?” I ask.
“Yes, that’s right, but your mom’s MS is further along now and the catatonia is new.”
“What’s that mean?” So far the news has been bad but not surprising.
“It may take her longer to recover.”
“Oh.” Last time it was two weeks in the hospital and then a few months at home before she was well enough to do anything.
“We’ll try to help her. The two main options are medication treatment and electroconvulsive therapy, ECT. We know she responded well to that in the past. Are you familiar with Electroconvulsive Therapy or ECT?”
In One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, it’s akin to a torture device. Even though I know that’s not true, it’s still tough to wrap my head around the thought of this woman electrocuting my mom to make her better.
“Shocking her,” I say.
“You’ve got the idea, but she would be asleep and we would give her something to relax all of her muscles so that she won’t be hurt. There are risks. But, as in the past with your mother, we often have excellent outcomes after just a few treatments.”
“Shocks.”
The doctor delivers a small smile. “There’s no tiptoeing around it. Yes, shocks.”
“When can she come home?”
“It depends on how she does. It will be at least a few weeks, or it might be longer.”
“Okay,” I say. This is like the woman in the elevator all over again. I asked her to give me the benefit of the doubt then, and now I have to offer the doctor the same consideration. She’s another person in life’s maze that I need to trust and let do her thing. “Do what you have to do.”
“It doesn’t really work that way,” Doctor Reddy says. “We make decisions together. Your mom is too sick to ask questions herself, and it’s important that you know the options and risks and that we make the decisions together.”
Another weight settles on my shoulders.
The doctor’s expression softens. “I do feel comfortable starting ECT as she had it in the past and did so well, but you were too young to be involved then. This time, do you have any questions?”
I feel as though I’m failing my mother but my mind draws a blank.
“I’ve been here before,” I say.
From the chart she pulls a legal form with a place for me to sign and date.
“This is the consent, and some information on ECT.”
I sign without reading anything.
“Visiting hours are over; can I go back and see her?” I ask.
“Of course, I’ll tell the nurses,” she says and leaves.
Peter and I sit for a moment without saying anything to one another, although his lips are parted like he thinks he should say something but doesn’t know what. He licks them, shoulders back and tense. I’m glad he didn’t speak to the doctor. My mom may really like him, but it’s only been a few months. I doubt he’ll stick around now and, if he does, then there’s the question of why.
“Doctor Reddy seems nice,” he says, breaking the silence. He reaches across the table to place his hand on my shoulder.
“Yeah.”
“You can stay with me,” Peter says. “Or I can stay at your place.”
Tonight I almost killed a man for luring a girl. I am not in the mood to trust another.
“You’re crazy.”
“Your mom wouldn’t want you to be alone,” he says, giving me another pat before folding his big meaty hands together.
“And now I have to make decisions for her,” I reply, still shaken by this new layer of responsibility.
“I can help, Janus, and the doctor.”
I bite my lip, not wanting him to see me cry, not about this. For my mom, sure, but not for feeling overwhelmed.
“I have a two-bedroom loft on—”
My eyes dry and I level them at Peter. I hope I don’t have to pull the I’m-sixteen-and-can-do-what-I-want-card. “Assured Destruction needs to be—”
“Don’t worry about Assured Destruction,” he says. “It’s not making any money anyway. You’re better to let it go.”
I accused my mom once of sleeping with Peter for his money. I can see the trap.
I pause and inspect a deflated IV bag that someone’s left dangling in the room. The desire for a fight rises in me. Weasel-banker twigged me to a mystery about Assured Destruction—it used to be very profitable. A history that I need to understand. I don’t let anything go.
“We’ve got time,” I say.
He grimaces and his eyes water with pity. “Your mother told me. The bank’s starting foreclosure proceedings tomorrow, Janus. You can’t make payments, let alone pay the whole thing off.”
“No, they’re not.” To his confusion, I add: “I figured out the carding case. The bank manager offered us a break on the mortgage if I didn’t tell anyone.”
Disappointment gives Peter’s face jowls.
“You mean you figured out where the credit card number leak is,” he says.
It’s my turn to be confused. “That’s what I said.”
“No, you said you solved the carding case.” His jaw tightens. “You stopped the hacking, but not the cracker. Don’t you realize how deep this goes? You didn’t catch anyone.”
“I needed to stop the leak, and I ended up extending our mortgage payments, everybody wins.”
“And that was a pretty gray hat thing to do.”
“I didn’t have a choice,” I say. It’s nearing midnight now and Peter should be glad I don’t have a Glock in my hand.
“You always have a choice.”
“I may not really have a father, Peter, but that doesn’t mean I want one.”
He swallows, looks like he’s about to say something, and then leaves. I wheel out after him and watch as he disappears back into my mom’s room. It’s not fair because that’s where I want to go. I slam my fists into my thighs and sit in the hall for a moment.
“Goodnight, Mom. And don’t worry,” I say to the corridor. “I’ll take a cab.”
At least the staff here are used to people talking to themselves.
Wincing with each turn of the wheels, I slowly roll my way back to the exit. In the hospital atrium a little boy points at me.
“Hello, officer!” Despite the late hour he’s bouncing, holding the hand of a worn mother.
“Hey there, partner,” I say, sounding m
ore like a cowboy in a Western movie than a police officer. It’s enough for him, though. He waves at me all the way to the door.
Chapter 28
Hours of community service remaining: 1945 IMHO
Assured Destruction is lifeless. The only light blazes from the high beams of the taxi.
“You sure?” the cabby says as I hand him a twenty.
“Yeah, there’s a party inside,” I say.
He shrugs.
After loafing in the cab for twenty minutes, my body has stiffened. No one has yet designed crutches for people with bruised ribs. With every crutch closer to the door, I have to pause and let the pain subside.
My eyes adjust to the moonlight. Moisture in my breath cones in the frigid air that slices through my thin shirt. Unlocking the door, I shamble inside and pause. Up or down? Up is bed. Down is Shadownet. Darkslinger. The mysterious history of the business lies before me in the office. It’s late and I’m dead on my feet.
I reach for my phone but remember that I never retrieved it from the police evidence locker. The laptop shattered after hitting Hannah. I wonder how she’s faring, then remember Ethan’s hug. With a brother like that, Hannah’s coping fine. She has a family.
A cat yowls, then another. I crutch into the warehouse and brace my hand on the wall while I open the back door. Six cats sit in the circle of the security light.
“Come on in,” I say. They’re hesitant until I shake some food onto the floor. I need some company tonight and I’m not against bribery or blackmail when necessary.
While the cats munch, I ease down the stairs to Shadownet and clap twice, awakening the beast.
Once in the captain’s chair I dry swallow a couple Tylenol and turn to the first screen.
I’m the type that pulls the trigger, Heckleena tweets.
What happens when creep makes bail? Hairy asks.
Could the creep be coming after me? Frannie wonders.
I’m breathing too fast, and my vision narrows. Cold sweat sweeps over me. I feel my finger on the trigger again—only this time I pull it and shudder at the shock of its imagined recoil.
No one made me god, JanusFlyTrap replies.
Right, because then we’d all be wearing polyester shirts over filthy khaki pants, #Armageddon, Tule says.
@JFlyTrap you’re not god and you don’t need to go it alone like Him.
My hands fly from the keyboard. The tweet is from Pumpkineater. Crap, Peter, leave me alone.
I unfollow him.
I jiggle the mouse of my dad’s old computer and open the photos, clicking to start a slideshow. A grid of images, me between the ages of ten and thirteen, scrolls across the screen. If I look a few years younger in them, my mom has aged twenty since they were taken. Glossy brown hair, full healthy cheeks, and lively eyes laugh at the catatonic zombie I saw hours ago lying on a hospital bed. Peter’s not good enough for the memories of my mom. But now? His offer to have me stay with him was genuine. But why? What’s tying him here? He’s never known my mom when she was well.
“When you coming home, Dad?” My voice cracks as I say it. “Don’t know when?” I chuckle a little crazily. “I’m on to you. I’ll find you and then you’ve got some explaining to do.” I shut off his computer so it won’t tempt me back.
In my inbox, I don’t have anything from anyone about tonight—lots of notifications, spam, Karl asking if I want to watch him swim. No one knows what happened with creep yet.
Some kid who likes me but won’t come out and say who he is has left me another geeky bit of poetry:
HD Love
Pixelated. I bet. A blocky Mario, to you.
But never monochrome
Pastel, maybe, but my blood is ff0000
Soon, you’ll see. True red.
Inside I’m plasma. I’m 4K, super HD fed.
FF0000? Really? It’s the digital palette code for the reddest of reds. The poem isn’t something I plan on responding to, but there’s something endearing to it all.
I do have an email from Principal Wolzowski, though: Congratulations! The subject line makes me sit up straight and I groan with pain.
Dear Janus Rose,
The administration at the Beijing International School gave its students the choice of where they wished to live while visiting Hopewell. Your essay was overwhelmingly favored and ten of the fifteen students elected to stay with your family. Thank you for your generosity …
Something catches in my throat and I cough, not quite able to believe what I’m reading.
Approximately three weeks from now, ten students will be joining you; please ensure that each has a private room and basic needs met. The five-hundred-dollar stipend per student is to be spent on food and to supplement utilities. The students will be with you for a total of three weeks. More information will follow for your mother to sign.
I can’t believe my plan worked. I lean far back in my chair and run fingers through my hair. My mom’s going to murder me. But then she won’t even be here when they arrive. I can’t tell her though. The stress of shepherding around ten teenagers? That really will kill her. What am I supposed to do with ten kids that don’t speak much English? Oh, well, with enough bandwidth and pizza everyone will be happy. I hope. I better start brushing up on my Mandarin.
I reply, Thank you, this is a beautiful thing! ;)
See what he makes of that.
A second email from the principal follows the first.
I note you were absent from school today. Please be aware that if you miss school tomorrow or any other day for any reason before the end of the semester, you will be forced to repeat it.
Have a great night.
I sag. I will not be forced to go through this semester a second time.
R u awake? I email Jonny, wishing I could text him. I stare at the screen until it swims and then shut my eyes. When I open them I still don’t have a reply from Jonny. It’s nearly one AM and I can’t miss class.
Before I shut down, I login to Darkslinger. I have a private message from Sw1ftM3rcy but I ignore it for a moment. Peter pissed me off tonight. I need to know more about him, and my mom’s in no position to tell me. Only one way has presented itself. Within a minute I’ve got Peter’s old hard drive loaded in the dock and some of the gobbledygook that’s on it copied into a text file.
I betcha can’t crack this code, I type, and then paste the contents of the file into the window on Darkslinger’s hacker challenge thread. First Prize: I will bow to your feet, sing your praises, and be otherwise suitably impressed. But you’ll never have all that, because this code is impossible to crack.
Hitting submit, I now have a team working to crack his encryption. Peter says I always have choices but he’s backed me into this corner. Darkslingers are awesome.
The Introductions thread is alive with all sorts of backslaps and hullabaloo for some prodigal Elite. Evidently, he was big back when hacking wasn’t de rigueur. The mods are even calling him out, demanding CrowBar prove he’s who he says he is. I click over to his profile and swallow. Hard.
Best Quality: Invisibility
Worst Quality: Hubris
Dream: To download my consciousness
If I ruled the world … we’d all be immortal online.
I miss-click as I fumble to bring Twitter back up. In a moment, I’m on Peter Pumpkineater’s profile, reading his bio: Tweeting my downloaded consciousness. Could CrowBar and Pumpkineater be one and the same? If so, why’s Peter on Darkslinger and why now? Why’s this CrowBar back? His tweet to me is still in his feed: you’re not god and you don’t need to go it alone.
It all adds up. Peter’s advice. The armor. Pushing me to continue the investigation, all his weirdness seems to point toward something more than just an interest in hacking or helping me.
&nb
sp; Don’t you realize how deep this goes? He’d said at the hospital. I shake my head. No, I don’t. And I’m not certain I want to. I rub a crop of gooseflesh from my arms.
I open my Darkslinger account’s inbox and click on Sw1ftM3rcy’s message.
Caught your post on the keyboard hack—nice to have another hacker on the site, he says.
And there it is. I’m no longer a script kiddie. I’ve leveled up. I am a hacker.
“Woot!” My shout echoes.
And in that moment, I let myself off the hook. I’m only sixteen and today I saved a life, maybe I saved two. Whether I’m off the force or not, for a script kiddie, today was a damn fine day. And now that I’m a hacker, who knows what tomorrow will bring?
And look at that—tomorrow’s already here.
I’m awake. Jonny
The calico finds me and leaps into my lap, reminding me of warm bodies.
Y don’t u come over? ;) I send.
… omw!
Peter was right; I don’t have to be alone.
Time to let some sunshine into my life, I tweet.
With Zombies
Book Three
Chapter 1
<
It’s 1 AM, on a school night.
I am waiting for my boyfriend Jonny and don’t want to move from the door, unwilling to leave it unlocked in the dark industrial park. I can barely stand. The last time food passed my lips was more than twelve hours ago. Bruised ribs keep my breathing shallow. My ankle throbs in its cast. Frigid drafts that blow from around the doorframe prop my eyes open. I shift and moan like a zombie. Even my fingers ache with cold as I tweet my Shadownet accounts from my mom’s iPhone, each account representing a different aspect of my personality.
Assured Destruction: The Complete Series Page 32